Drabbles and Oneshots
by VividReader365
Summary: I will be featuring the beginning, middle and end of Irene's life as we know it; or, Aphmau's, I suppose? These are short and may be expanded in future. Updates are random as I am still a student and this is a form of stress relief, honestly.
1. One: Hurt

**Fandom:**

Aphmau

**Characters:**

Original Cast-

Aphmau, Shad, Aaron, Laurence (implied), Garroth (implied), Dante (implied)

**Prompt:**

#15,

**Warnings:**

Immortal!AU, UnspecifiedTiming/Non-Canonical, more focused on reactions/feelings over actual event (if that makes sense??),

**Summary:**

Aphmau falls, but not really; they learn that Irene always rises.

Or,

They had always knew she was dangerous. They just never realised why.

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They spin in unison as her scream rings out, desperate and terrified yet so god-damned determined. Those on the battlefield pause at the sight of Lady Irene (Lord Aphmau, she would always be Lord Aphmau in their hearts) on her knees… Her white dress is stained with blood that steadily spreads, and a blade is ran through her.

No, no **no** **no_n_****_onon_**-

They want to scream--desperate, pitiful pleas build in their lungs but not a single one of them allow it to escape their crushed throats and clenched jaws; this is a battlefield, a war, and thus weakness cannot be shown.

They want to pray, beg, prostrate themselves by the Matron's feet and offer everything they have, everything they have and are worth, in hopes that they could escape this... this _nightmare_.

But it isn't a figment of their overly-imaginative (and frankly, unhealthily paranoid) minds.

_(Though is it paranoia when they're really out to get you?)_

Surely that was not Aphmau, but rather a stranger with the same raven coloured hair, sun-kissed skin and wide, amber eyes.

Surely that was not Aphmau (their lord; their light; their love), frozen as though she had been struck by paralysing magicks during the fighting, with blood dripping agonising slowly down the violet blade.

The blade of her lover, Aaron, not theirs.

_(Violet, violet, violet, not green or blue or red-- never would they let it be their blade that pierced her body)_

_(it never could and never would be theirs)._

Shad smiles down at them, a smile of a madman, yet one of jealousy and resigned guilt.

He had won. Their battles, the grueling preparation, the children that grew up too quickly, the memorials and graves and lost ones… it all boiled down to this.

Failure. Loss. He had won.

Raven locks fly wildly in the wind as she falls, caramel eyes _(wide with horror, fear, pain)_ staring both blankly and intensely into nothing _(into the void)_.

Lean legs, defined with years, decades; no, entire _centuries and millennium_ of training, in order to protect those she loved… they crumple beneath that shaking torso, and she falls to her knees, by the feet of her sworn enemy (her once _lover_, her _mortal weakness_), and she-

She pulled the knife from her chest and smiled.

"Was that supposed to hurt?"

_(He wasn't really a mortal weakness, was he? Then again, wouldn't the better question, was she ever mortal?)_

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**Author's Note: **

Hello there! This is the first piece of fanfition I have written for Aphmau, or at least so I think? Previously I wrote for anime, so here's a warning- I like the odd cliché/trope every now and then... or often and many...

Also, English is not my first language. I may try to edit these numerous times before posting, but it matters little considering how terrible my grammar can be. In some places, I overuse punctuation or italics/bolding for effects; I am more than aware that I use too many brackets and commas, etc. If it displeases you so, it is easy to leave. Farewell.

Currently, these are barely a few hundred words long. Depending on the response to them, I may further certain concepts/drabbles, and am welcome to prompts/headcannons or requests, although my updates may be sporadic.

... I apologise for the length of this author's note... so long, considering the length (or lack therefore of) the drabble/oneshot ('-)

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Created 25TH AUGUST 2019.

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Uploaded 1ST NOVEMBER 2019.

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Edited 2ND NOVEMBER 2019.


	2. Two: Enki's Library

**Fando****m:**

Aphmau

**Characters:**

Aphmau, Irene, Travis, Enki, Aaron, Shad, other Divine Warriors

**Prompt**: N/A

**Warnings****:**

use of pronouns repeatedly in place of nouns because I was feeling weird in September/October, when the draft was written, mention of death and reincarnation I guess, and if there's more don't hesitate to tell me.

**Summary****:**

Aphmau is alike Irene is many ways and somehow none at all.

or, an exploration of the library leads to the line between them blurring but neither care too much, too nostalgic and sad and tired to care that much.

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They had been frantic. There are splatters of ink, the imprint of bitter, regretful, exhausted tears and in latter pages, the dull garnet of ancient- yet vibrant- blood.

She wonders, how did the author manage? Isolation in these mind-numbingly cold mountains, with what feels like never ending echoes… already, she feels as though she's lost her mind.

It's barely been a week.

She studies the books, carefully marking the location of those that truly had content; words of ink, visible to the human eyes and not memories, memories of what she is- once was, once had.

Candles flicker. Lavender and cinnamon fills the air, masking the scent of _(decades, centuries, millennium?)_ old parchment and books. She ignores the pang of nostalgia, ignores the taste of their cinnamon buns, the light touch of their embrace.

Breathe in, breathe out. In, and out.

Shadows dance around the edges of her peripheral vision. She doesn't turn, doesn't let hope blooming in her that he's there.

Because he's not. He's not there; he isn't here; he won't be by her side. Not any more.

Her face is wet. She's surprised. She thought she ran out of tears after the first three days of sobbing, weeping and begging for forgiveness.

_(Please… I-I'm so sorry! Im so sorry! Please forgive me…!)_

_(... she knows she doesn't deserve it...)_

Breathe in. Immediately, the sinfully heaven-like smell of cinnamon and lavender fills her from head to toe… their favourite spice, and flower, respectively. Briefly, memories _(of a hand to hold, of a promise to forever- why am I still here, then?)_ burst to the forefront of her mind and overlap the sight of the terribly large, terribly lonely library. She's careful _(regretful, emotional)_ when she breathes out.

She has three weeks left.

Despite its fine, sturdy leather binding, slender fingers tremble, slow and steady as they turn delicate pages yellowed with time and piercingly quiet, in the silent, silent library.

His work begins in structured, flowing paragraphs and his writing is neat, easy to read. His explanations are laid out well, fluent to read as though he was there and talking to her...

She manages to locate the corresponding notebooks with his additional notes, and can't help the pride, adoration, admiration searing her soul as she reads through them.

He poured his time and energy into these, it's obvious. He was always the scholarly type and adored recording information, even in the later reincarnations she remembered.

_(Or was it her previous reincarnation that knew this? After all, her version was more dedicated to protecting his people with his sword… even after they turned their backs on him for something as trivial as his heritage, the ungrateful wretched people that they were.)_

_(... with both, all, of them though... she never could protect them properly. It was why she slept for so long, why she's here and searching for answers now. Why is she such a **failure**?)_

Breathe in, and out. It grows colder, the fire now a faint glow that splutters instead of the merry cackling earlier. She sighs, shakes her head to rip her head out of the clouds and goes to rekindle the fire.

3 weeks, 21 days, 254 hours give-or-take before she will be forced to attend to other duties, if she's lucky.

She knows that a single lifetime will not be enough to uncover her past, as long as her immortal(?) life has been so far, nor the lives of those she cherished _(still cherishes__), _but damn if she won't do her best to find out why he had changed so much, what in the name of the gods she had done to hurt him so badly that he _(her almost-lover, most trusted comrade, her best friend)_... hated her so.

Why does she feel the urge to just end it all, to just, repent for her crimes through a simple, swift _slice_?

She needed to know... she wanted to know. What had her past self done?

... her soul still misses him. Both of them.

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**A/N:**

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I had actually wrote the draft for this during an English lesson, and had been really interested in exploring how Aph/Irene would've/could've/should've (?) felt, exploring Enki's Library. Yes, it deserves a capital in my opinion because imagine being in it, the sheer size of the building (? it was technically in a cavern but still--)! So many books, even if many appear to be empty...

Overall I was just inspired by the library scene, and was curious as to an alternative way Aphmau could have reacted, and since Irene had taken over a couple of episodes ago, what could their combined, acknowledged existence in the one body have led to? I don't think I quite achieved it, but eh?

Also, I don't remember why, but a month ago I didn't want to use names for some reason, so I apologise if the repetition of pronouns grew tiring, although overall technically only like, nine people were mentioned, with three being very very brief...?? I hope you enjoyed, I'll be looking into writing oneshots for other series soon...

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PUBLISHED 9TH NOVEMBER 2019.

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EDITED 9TH NOVEMBER 2019.


	3. Three: Hers (Theirs)

The stairwell is awful, the steps deceptively frail and she denies the urge to flinch once again, as a bone-chilling crack resonates throughout the air. Scowling, she continues down what seem to be never-ending stairs. Taut features twist further, brows furrowed and lips drawn into a snarl. The air is stale, cold and unbelievably disgusting.

It reminds her of when she first found the previous Lord's diary, when she rescued that werewolf pup, when she found Malachi's mother… it reminds her of a lot.

(The stench of ashes and blood grows stronger. Her heart skips a beat.)

Briefly pausing, she reminds herself of why she's here, why she's in this dusty, dirty, dank stairwell; why she wants (needs) to do this. She carries on.

Calloused, slender fingers nervously stroke the strong, sturdy fabric wrapped around the blade, which shifts with each step… yet fails to produce noise. Which is good, except the constant silence is driving her crazy…

(Had drove her crazy, slowly but surely centuries ago as she lived and lived and lived... but they lived, died and repeated the cycle. Reborn, rise, rinse, descend, repeat. Birth, life, death- repeat. Wake, wash, sleep. Repeat.)

The silence is deafening.

How long has passed? minutes, hours, days? Should she take a break; rest and replenish her body's growing need for food, water and rest?

The door, dark like obsidian and similarly foreboding, answers her question- no.

Again, she grasps the material around her blade. Deep breath in, slow breathe out. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

She opens the door.

Her scream is silent.

**Aaron is- **_**was-**_ **a man of honour, of virtues and righteousness. Despite his lone-wolf, slightly snarky attitude, his habit of travelling separate from the group (due to **_**years**_ **of travelling alone, living in isolation…) he was a kind man. A good man, that helped her **_**without need nor question**_**, who **_**stayed by her side**_ **as one-by-one, her friends left, who she **_**loved-**_

**That isn't Aaron. It can't be. He couldn't- wouldn't have killed Little Alina, her light, her hope, their daughter-**

Little, blank eyes stare back at her.


End file.
